


for the rest of this life

by strawberriez8800 (orphan_account)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur and Eames adopt a dog, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: After the Fisher inception, Arthur wants to take a break and get a dog.Eames suspects it’s his method of coping with Cobb’s exit, now that Arthur no longer has a side project to work on, but he knows better than to ask.In which Arthur and Eames raise a dog; life gets in the way sometimes, but they try to make it work.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I can't get enough of these two :)

The plane lands in Los Angeles, and the Fischer inception ties up into a neat little bow.

Eames meets Arthur’s gaze across the plane aisle. Arthur gives him a nod, but they don’t speak even when Eames aches for it, much like he aches for the feeling of Arthur beneath his hands, for Arthur’s breath to brush against his mouth.

It’s been a while.

They don’t speak at the border security checkpoint. They don’t speak at the baggage carousel either. They don’t speak until they walk out of the airport and into the dry summer air, and when they do, it comes in hushed words pressed along soft lips, until Arthur holds Eames back with his palm on his chest and says, “We have all the time in the world. Let’s go home.”

Home.

Eames doesn’t object to that.

(Los Angeles will never feel like home to him; although he would never be caught dead admitting this aloud, being here with Arthur may make it feel half-way close to one—someday.)

The taxi ride to Arthur’s penthouse is long, but it isn’t by virtue of distance. In the backseat, Eames glances at Arthur, who’s staring out the window, lost in thought; though Eames has a good guess of what’s weighing on Arthur’s mind, he doesn’t ask.

In time, perhaps.

So, he simply reaches across the gap and gives Arthur’s wrist a light flick with his fingers, feeling a small smile tug at his mouth as he does. Arthur looks back at Eames and grabs his hand tightly, before his attention returns to the passing landscape. The warmth is familiar, and Eames’s relief at the touch—it soothes and scares him at once.

(It’s nothing new, this feeling; Arthur’s always had a way to get under Eames’s skin in all the worst and best ways. Here, now—it’s the latter. Eames holds onto this feeling.)

They don’t let go until the taxi pulls up before the building. It sits on the edge of downtown Los Angeles, steel and glass rising to the sky, proud in its excess and stark in its sterility—much like Arthur himself, which Eames notes with silent amusement.

The lift takes them straight up to the thirtieth floor and opens to the hallway that leads to Arthur’s penthouse. The front door has barely closed behind them when Arthur holds him against it and brings their lips together. They kiss softly and lazily, with the steel cold behind Eames’s back and Arthur warm beneath his hands.

There’s not an ounce of urgency in their touch; Eames loves this the most, the languidness they can afford after a job—this job especially, given the chaos of it all—and Arthur seems much of the same mind in his slow kisses along Eames’s jaw. Beneath the calm, something simmers and stirs, but they choose to linger in the sweet, sweet indolence. Their hands and lips and breaths path along their bodies with aching familiarity and no desire to stop, and when Arthur pulls away it’s simply to say, “Shower, sex, sleep.”

Eames grins. “In that order?”

“Yes. I feel fucking disgusting.”

(It’s a pity that sleeping under the effects of Somnacin isn’t quite the same as _sleeping_ , because Eames would much rather have a shower, then sex and more sex. Nonetheless.)

Clothes come off, piece by piece, littered from the front door to the bathroom like a trail of breadcrumbs. With a flick of his wrist, Arthur flips on the shower tap, and the water runs from cool to warm to steaming hot in seconds.

Eames lets his mouth speak without words of how opposite of disgusting he finds Arthur, laughing lightly at the way Arthur leans into his touch, purrs into the kiss beneath the warm waterfall, before Arthur says, “Shower _then_ sex. Not shower sex.” He drags his lips along the line of Eames’s slick collarbone. “Tired.”

Eames smirks at him, though his attempt at seducing Arthur with it doesn’t work as intended when he has to blink water out of his eyes. Arthur breaks into a little smile and kisses him on the mouth, firm with promise.

Soon after, they dry off and fall into Arthur’s bed, clumsy with the bliss of a steaming shower after a long, long day and the feeling of each other in their arms. Amidst Arthur’s silk sheets and beside a mirror that spans the length of a wall, they fuck, slowly and gently, because Arthur’s right—they do have all the time in the world. Eames feels the tension seep out of Arthur, feels his moans beneath his hand on Arthur’s throat as Eames fucks him from behind.

Arthur is flushing high on his cheeks and chest, bright and wanting. Through the mirror, the sight makes Eames thrust harder, and he revels in Arthur’s sharp gasp in response. “You narcissist,” Arthur breathes, smirking, when their eyes meet in the reflection.

“It’s your—your mirror.” Christ, he can barely get his words out now. “Touch yourself, darling.”

“No—” a pant “—want your mouth on my cock. After. Don’t want to come—yet. Ah, fuck, Eames, yes—”

Eames comes inside Arthur, feels his own body shudder against Arthur’s as he buries his face into the curve of Arthur’s neck. Eames breathes him in, sinks himself into the happiness that Arthur’s existence brings him—god, he doesn’t deserve this—as he spends himself inside him. Eames squeezes his eyes shut, brimming with euphoria and a pleasant blankness as he chants in his mind— _I love you I love you I love you._

* * *

When Eames awakes from the afternoon nap, Arthur is already up beside him in bed, browsing on his laptop. The sun streams through the tinted windows and falls across the bottom half of Arthur’s face. He looks lovely like this, and Eames wants to brush his fingers across his cheek.

But Arthur’s staring rather intently at his computer, and Eames knows now’s not the time, so he lets his eyes fall shut again and says, “Back at it so soon?”

What’s next, he wonders. Jakarta? Budapest? Siem Reap? How long will they have to be apart this time, or will the next job align with the stars—again—and have them in the same city?

(Eames is aware, certainly, of the melodrama behind these unspoken thoughts, which is precisely why they remain unspoken.)

Arthur keeps silent, though he gives Eames an acknowledging squeeze on his shoulder.

“Very mysterious.” He peeks at Arthur. “Tell me.”

Sighing, Arthur turns his laptop screen to Eames. He squints at it, and it takes him a second longer than it normally would for the situation to dawn, because Arthur’s showing him the website of a pet rescue, and not one of an extraction job.

“Huh,” is all Eames says as he closes his eyes again. The longing to fall back asleep tugs behind his lids. Bloody jet lag.

“I’m getting a dog, Eames.”

He hears the brisk clicking of the keyboard, and says, “What are you even typing at? It’s a browsing page.”

“Filling out the application form.”

Eames props himself up on an elbow, feeling a scowl descend as he says, “You’re serious about this.”

“Yes.”

Eames pinches the bridge of his nose. “Darling, you do realise the nature of our profession isn’t ideal for owning a dog. The fact that we’re home for three months a year has something to with it.”

“I know.” Arthur closes the lid of his laptop and looks at Eames. “Which is why I’m retiring, or at the very least, taking a goddamned sabbatical.” His brown eyes are soft, but there’s a stubbornness beneath them, one that Eames recognises; it communicates, succinctly, any further discussion would be futile.

“You _are_ serious about this,” Eames says again.

“You better hope I am. We’re talking about an animal’s life, aren’t we?”

“Exactly.”

Arthur presses a kiss on his lips. “Come on, this will be good. For me. And you. Us.” He bites his lip, looking away. “I don’t expect you to put your career on hold just so we can raise a dog. But. Yeah. Offer’s there.”

The thing is—Eames has always found it unjustly difficult to refuse Arthur, from the first moment they met. This time, it’s no different, even if it means he still can’t have Arthur to himself.

There’s also the option of walking away. Arthur’s given him this choice.

But that’s not really Eames’s choice at all, so he simply pulls Arthur down for a kiss.

(Distantly, Eames suspects this is Arthur’s method of coping with Cobb’s exit, now that Arthur no longer has a _project_ to work on. Eames knows better than to ask, however.)

“Good,” Arthur mumbles against his mouth when Eames holds him there for a little longer. “Get dressed.”

Eames frowns. “Why?”

“I booked an appointment at the rescue. Starts in—” Arthur checks the time on his phone “—twenty minutes.”


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur barrels through the downtown traffic with Eames in the passenger seat.

Maniacal—Eames thinks.

Efficient—is what Arthur would say.

But they’re not being chased down by lunatics with AK-12s at their disposal, so Eames calls this a win.

(It’s no secret Arthur’s the one he would want at the wheel when they’re running for their lives, so it’s a small price to pay, being subjected to a heart-stopping thrill every time they drive to the supermarket—or in this case, an animal rescue.)

While Arthur drives, Eames reviews the spreadsheet Arthur has made, which details a long list of dog breeds, their traits, tendency to cuddle—this point is bolded—and their level of shedding. Eames can’t help but laugh at this, and Arthur shoots him a questioning glance.

“Only you would make a spreadsheet out of this ordeal,” Eames says as he skims the list. “It shows here you strongly prefer lap dogs. Do you not get enough lap time from me?” He grins.

“It’s not the same,” Arthur says flatly. “And stop laughing at me. It’s a hazard to my driving.”

Eames pulls a straight face and watches Arthur’s lips quirk into a reluctant smile.

They arrive ten minutes late, because there’s only so much one can do at the mercy of such congestion without attracting a cop or five. Arthur curses under his breath as they approach the front door, and Eames says, “We’re ten minutes late, not ten hours.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll probably see this—this fucking sloppiness—as proof of my ability to raise a dog.”

“Arthur, darling, I could think of twenty things more important than punctuality in being a dog parent. Patient, nurturing, organised, committed. Shall I go on?”

Arthur grants him a wry smile. “You’re shit at pep talks.”

“I’m _great_ at pep talks.” Eames pulls him into a quick kiss and feels Arthur thaw beneath his touch. “Case in point.”

“Piss off.” Arthur gives him a light jab on the ribs with his elbow, and together they walk into the precinct.

A staff member greets them at the reception. Contrary to Arthur’s belief, they do not indeed get shunned out the door for their lateness. After signing in at the desk, they’re shown to the animal dormitory, where a row of crates spans the length of a wall. A few of the dogs start barking curiously at their entrance.

“What type of dog do you have in mind?” the rescue worker—May, according to her name tag—asks.

Arthur seems too smitten by a black Yorkie to hear May’s question, so Eames answers for him. “Squeaky toys,” he says, and when May looks at him quizzically, he adds, “lap warmers,” and sees the comprehension dawn on her face.

When Arthur and Eames finish touring the pet dorm, May brings them to a separate room with chairs and rugs and pillows before leaving them. Soon after, she returns with a few small dogs in her arms and Eames tries not to melt into a puddle. Arthur meets his gaze, and mouths a silent “I want all of them,” and Eames shakes his head at Arthur, despite himself.

Ultimately, the Bichon Frise mix—Sophie, the rescue has named her—wins their affections. Arthur looks about ready to kidnap her, only for May to inform them of the mandatory 48-hour cooling-off period to reduce the likelihood of returns. They also need to pass an interview with the adoption officer, which is scheduled for the next day.

“Gonna be the longest 48 hours of my life,” Arthur says sullenly, on their way back to the car.

Eames agrees with the sentiment.

* * *

The adoption officer is a stern-looking woman who reminds Eames of Mrs Powell from Year Five. She never liked him because he was an insufferable pupil—this he admits freely in hindsight—who made a habit of hiding her chalks and pens, or—what is equally possible—he was insufferable in her presence precisely because she didn’t like him.

Either way, between Arthur and Eames, they decided Arthur will do most of the talking in the interview, for which Eames is grateful.

(He can certainly play nice when he must, within reason; Mrs Powell is beyond such reason.)

The officer asks about Arthur’s lifestyle, work and housing situations, family—in this case, Eames himself, for he’s to share the same roof as the dog. Arthur answers dutifully, provides what documents he must, though Eames detects a near-imperceptible edge to his voice and sees the way Arthur’s fingers are lightly drumming along his knee under the table; Arthur’s patience is running very, very thin.

They pass the interview, and after the officer leaves the room, Arthur grins a grin so bright that Eames wants to kiss him then and there. He doesn’t though; it can wait.

(Until they’re alone, when Eames can _really_ kiss him.)

For the rest of the afternoon, they shop for dog supplies. It would already be a long shopping list for a regular dog-owner, but it’s Arthur, so naturally the list is three times longer.

There’s another spreadsheet, of course.

* * *

Arthur’s breath ghosts along Eames’s hip and sends a tingle down his spine. His voice is muffled against Eames’s side when he says, “Our last night before we become dog dads.”

Closing his eyes, Eames runs his fingers through Arthur’s freshly-showered hair as they lay in bed. “Mhmm.” He cracks open an eye to look at Arthur. “Also the last night before mid-sex interruptions become our way of life.”

Arthur gives a curt, low chuckle. It brands into the skin of Eames’s hip. “It’s a dog, not a fucking baby.” He mouths a path to Eames’s cock, lips pliant and warm and gorgeous, and he’s about to take him in when Eames says, “Wait. Come up here.”

Arthur obliges, though he raises a brow in question.

“Want you here tonight. Use your hand.” Eames cups the back of his head and brings their lips together. They kiss languidly, eyes slipping shut, and Eames’s breath catches a little when Arthur starts to stroke his cock.

“You, sir, are such a romantic,” Arthur says, and Eames feels him smile against the corner of his mouth.

He smirks. “No shame in that, is there?”

“None at all, Mr Eames.” He kisses him in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

By the end of it, they’re lying in bed under the sheets, sweat-slick with sex yet chilled from the air-conditioning. Eames is about to completely sink into post-coital bliss when Arthur pries himself free of Eames’s arm and sits up. “Gonna look into more recipes,” Arthur says, grabbing his laptop from the bedside table.

Eames feels a frown coming as he asks, “Recipes?”

Arthur’s already clicking and typing away. “For Sophie’s meals.”

“You’re going to cook for the dog,” Eames says slowly, “when you’ve barely cooked for yourself.”

(And Eames, for that matter, but he’s hardly about to say _that_.)

Arthur shrugs. “Guess so.”

Eames covers his face with a pillow, trying not to groan into it, but fails terribly.

“What?” Arthur asks beside him.

“Nothing.”

“Eames.”

“Arthur, ignore me.” Because he’s feeling jealous of a dog that isn’t even here yet, and if that’s not bloody ridiculous, nothing is.

(He almost wishes it was Cobb instead, because then at least he could bring himself to detest the guy.)

When Arthur resumes his work on what’s probably another spreadsheet, Eames opens up Sophie’s page on the rescue’s website on his phone, just to remind himself that Sophie is a _dog_ , not his competition, and that she is cute and lovely and precious, and Eames loves dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having way too much fun with this :D
> 
> For anyone who is interested in [Sophie's bio page.](https://i.imgur.com/Pexeo6d.jpg/)


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur, Eames knows, is not a morning person when he doesn’t have to be.

“Sleep is sacred, Eames. _Sacred,_ ” Arthur once told him. “I’ll wake up in limbo before I wake up earlier than I need to.”

It surprised Eames, hearing this. A dissonance among his assumptions before he’d known better.

Now, Arthur being the furthest from an early riser is one of the many things Eames likes about him, because it means Eames never wakes up alone on their days off, and he likes this very much. Revels in it, even. Revels in the luxury of arising to Arthur’s sleeping face. It’s embarrassing to admit, but he’s waist-deep—no, bloody _immersed_ in this ocean named Arthur, so what’s a little more?

(Eames tells himself it’s humbling, being so utterly crippled. Humbling, not embarrassing.)

All of this to say Eames is disappointed to find Arthur’s side of the bed empty this morning. Cold, too.

He doesn’t think too much about where Arthur might have gone; not far, certainly, because Arthur’s watch remains on the nightstand. Eames closes his eyes instead, listens to the quiet hum of the air-conditioner until his consciousness once again skirts the boundary of sleep.

Then, he hears it: activity in the house, distant but distinct.

He drags himself from the bed and pads out of the room. Following the sound, he finds Arthur in the kitchen, frowning at his phone with half-prepared food in front of him. Following a recipe, likely.

Eames lingers in the doorway as he watches Arthur navigate with what would seem like expertise to anyone who doesn’t look any closer. But there’s a small pause before Arthur methodically commits to every step, brows pulled together somewhat, like he’s giving it another split-second thought because it is, after all, unfamiliar territory.

Arthur has long noticed his presence, because at some point his lips have curled up into a little smile. He’s also moving with more certainty now, as if being observed by Eames is bolstering his confidence.

Or Arthur just likes to show off.

“Sophie’s not even here yet and you’re already cooking for her,” Eames says lightly.

(As much as he might be envious of a puppy who has so easily run away with Arthur’s heart, this envy is nothing compared to his wonder at seeing Arthur try his hand at domesticity.)

“I’m cooking for us, too.” Arthur places the ingredients into the slow cooker. It’ll be ready in six to eight hours in time for Sophie’s dinner, he tells Eames, then he asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”

“If I knew it’d take a dog for you to ask me that, I would’ve gotten one years ago. Would’ve started a shelter, actually.”

“Answer the question, Eames.”

They decide on omelettes, because even Arthur can’t run before he can walk.

When Arthur is cooking, Eames sneaks a hand beneath the front of Arthur’s shirt and ghosts his fingers across his stomach, feels the rise of goosebumps in the wake of his touch. Arthur bats his hand away and gives him a peck on the lips—a compromise Eames accepts without complaint.

That morning, they eat breakfast at the kitchen counter instead of a coffee shop.

* * *

Arthur sets down a notepad and pen at the table where Eames is with his laptop. “House rules,” Arthur says, twirling the pen between his fingers.

“Hmm?”

“For the dog.” At what must be Eames’s puzzled expression, Arthur sighs and says, “We should set up house rules for the dog, Eames.”

“Ah.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t talk to you about this?”

Shrugging, he says, “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Eames, you’ve lived here for the past year.” Arthur takes a seat across from him at the table. “And trust me when I say I’m not having you live with me out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Good to know,” Eames says, smiling at the way Arthur is now scowling at him. “What?”

“Do you think I’m kidding? I mean it—I want you here.” Arthur’s eyes widen a little. “Shit, did you not know that?”

The thing is, Eames _didn’t_ in fact know.

Now he does. Mostly.

(Distantly, Eames wonders how they’ve gone from talking about establishing house rules to Arthur’s commitment to their—what? They’ve never quite spoken about this; Eames living at Arthur’s house simply happened from lots of fucking and falling asleep after fucking, until Eames staying anywhere else stopped being an option at all.)

Eames watches, amused, as Arthur seems to arrive at a conclusion and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry,” Arthur says, “I must’ve fucked up somewhere if you still don’t know how much I—”

“Darling, relax.” Eames walks around the table and pulls Arthur into a kiss. “I know _now._ Which is what matters.”

Arthur’s eyes soften a touch. “I never want you to feel like you don’t belong, yeah?”

“Not belonging anywhere is my natural state of being,” Eames says truthfully. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it. But yes, if I were to belong anywhere, well it’s acceptable here. Nice, even.”

“What an honour,” Arthur says dryly, smiling regardless, and he pulls away from Eames’s arms. “Now, house rules.” He takes the notepad and pen and starts writing down a list. “Will Sophie be allowed on furniture?”

“Sure.”

“Where will she sleep?”

“She’ll be crated until she’s house-trained. Then, bed or wherever she wants. But the bed’s only fine if she stays on one side, not in the middle.”

“My side, Eames.”

He shrugs. “Done.”

The rest of the discussion goes like this: Arthur is the one who walks Sophie; Eames feeds her; the bedroom is off-limits when they’re fucking—“Make sure to lock the door,” Eames tells Arthur—and the kitchen is off-limits at all times; no treats from the dinner table and no table scraps—these Arthur insists on, saying something about food safety for dogs, which Eames agrees with.

In the afternoon, they pick up Sophie at the shelter. She greets them with an enthusiasm that makes the sky seem a little bluer and the sun a little brighter. Arthur signs off some final documents, and they take Sophie home.

The dog sits on Eames’s lap in the passenger seat while Arthur drives. She buries her nose into Eames’s jacket, sniffs and licks at his hands and tries to climb up his chest. He holds her down gently, petting her on the head until she calms down.

Eames doesn’t miss the way Arthur keeps sneaking glances at Sophie at every opportunity.

Smirking, Eames says lightly, “Eyes on the road.”

Arthur pouts.

“Next time we take her anywhere, I’ll drive,” Eames says.

A smile. “Okay.”

* * *

Arthur observes on the side when Eames begins Sophie’s crate training. While Sophie is watching, Eames fills the crate with dog treats and closes the door. It isn’t long before Sophie starts to paw at the crate door, so Eames opens it and lets her in to investigate her new home.

Eames closes the door with Sophie inside, and murmurs soft encouragement and praise when she laps up her treats.

“You’re so in love,” Arthur says when Eames lets Sophie out again.

“I am, yes.”

Arthur grins. “Now, are you still jealous I started cooking for the dog? Because I’d be totally fine if you love her more than me, Eames.”

“...I never was. Jealous, I mean.”

“You definitely were.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter a lot, though I'm not exactly sure why. I think I like how it turned out in the end.
> 
> This story is very relaxing to write though :)


End file.
